


Not Alone

by Sara_Ellison



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Ellison/pseuds/Sara_Ellison





	Not Alone

He regarded her steadily through ancient eyes over the top of her CV. She fidgeted in her seat a little, then caught herself and stopped.

She wasn’t good at judging aliens’ ages, but she suspected he might be older than he thought. No—that wasn’t right. Her grasp of the alien language must be slipping. Older than he thought. She frowned at the sentence’s refusal to correct itself.

“This is quite impressive, Miss—Chantho, is it?”

“Chan, that’s correct, sir, tho,” she confirmed.

He smiled and laid the CV down on the desk. “Tell me, then. Why do you want this job?”

She sat up a little straighter. “Chan, because engineering is my passion, and because frankly, sir, we need all the help we can get, tho.” That was true enough; the situation on the surface was becoming dire. There was no need to tell him of her mother’s insistence.

“Teng, it is not good to be alone at your age, tho,” her mother had told her.

“Chan, thank you, but I am not interested in a ball and chain, tho!” she had replied irritably. It was not the first time her mother had nagged her on the subject, nor, she suspected, would it be the last.

“Teng, you don’t need to settle down immediately, Chantho, but you don’t have anyone. We are the last of our people. You must befriend the human aliens, Chantho, you do not have other options.How about a companion? A friend? At least consider taking a job where you work with another person once in a while, tho.”

She couldn’t deny there was some merit in Tengtho’s advice, so she had applied. Her mother was thrilled when Chantho was invited for an interview. “Teng, you will have someone to do the cooking and cleaning, tho!” she exclaimed delightedly, to Chantho’s exasperation.

“Chan, _mother_ , it is a job interview, not a betrothal, tho,” she reminded her, rolling her eyes.

So she had ended up here, where she found herself unable to forget her mother’s unique views. The professor was alien, and he was old; but, Chantho quietly admitted to herself, in the secret part of her mind where thoughts could be kept safe, he was handsome, in an exotic and distinguished sort of way.

“When can you start?” His question jolted her from her musings.

A grin split her face. “Chan, immediately, sir, tho!” she answered eagerly. “Chan, I have only to move my things to the new rooms. I do not have much, tho.”

“No,” he agreed soberly. “Not many of us do.” His eyes unfocused, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk in a pattern of four beats. Abruptly he recalled himself to the present and smiled at her. “Tell me, Chantho. You have an interesting pattern of speech—is it a trait of your culture?”

She laughed lightly. “Chan, it is a common question from aliens tho. Yes, my people speak this way so as to avoid confusion. It identifies the speaker and prevents interrupting each other, because one knows the speaker is not finished speaking until their name is complete, tho.”

“That’s fascinating,” the old human said sincerely. “Perhaps more cultures should adopt this speech pattern. It seems very courteous.” As he spoke, he leaned forward. A watch on a chain slipped from the pocket of his waistcoat. He tucked it away again automatically, as though he were so used to its existence that he didn’t even need to think about it.

Chantho frowned. Something about the watch made her uneasy, though she could not identify what. She felt inexplicably more comfortable when it was safely out of sight. “Chan,” she said, and it was a moment before she could gather herself enough to continue the thought, “what should I call you, now that I am working for you? Should I call you master, tho?”

“Call me…?” he repeated, as though he had not heard the last word. “You may call me Professor Yana, or simply Professor if you wish.”

Chantho smiled. He was a little eccentric, perhaps, a little absentminded, but seemed harmless enough. She would enjoy working with him.

The next few months were among the most rewarding of her life. The design of the rocket was ingenious, and she felt honored to be working alongside its creator. Yana, for his part, was gracious and happy to instruct Chantho in any and all areas in which she expressed interest.

There were, of course, areas of interest that she never expressed. For all he smiled when he looked at her, the affection in his eyes was only ever that of a teacher for a favored student. The casual touches he bestowed on her never progressed beyond that which was acceptable between friends—a hand resting on her shoulder or the occasional congratulatory hug when a breakthrough was made. Chantho was truly happy to be working with Yana, and his friendship was invaluable to her; but deep within that secret part of her mind where dangerous thoughts could not escape, she was disappointed.

Construction of the rocket engine had hit a snag; Chantho could see that well enough, despite Professor Yana’s assurances to all that everything was proceeding according to schedule. Worse, the frustration was taking its toll on him. His spells, as she thought of them, were becoming more frequent: he would lose focus on the task at hand for sometimes minutes at a time, moving as though disconnected, lightyears away. Sometimes he would tap his fingers in that same pattern of four; during the worst of these black moods, he would mutter something about drums in an anguished undertone.

It was Chantho who suggested the excursion. “Chan, you need to relax, Professor,” she told him, gently but firmly. “Just for an evening. A break from worrying about the rocket. And perhaps a new perspective will help you think about the problem differently, and see a solution you couldn’t find from close up, tho.” He agreed, not without reluctance, and she led him to the overlook she had discovered at the top of the base.

A thick, multi-paned glass bubble enclosed the balcony, affording an unparalleled view of the nearly-complete rocket ship. “Chan, oh, it is beautiful, tho,” she sighed as she laid cushions on the picnic blanket.

Yana took her hand as he seated himself carefully. “It is,” he agreed earnestly. “Why, my dear—are you all right? You’re trembling.”

“Chan, it is just, I am excited for all this, finishing the rocket and the journey to Utopia, tho,” she explained, and part of her almost believed it. He still hadn’t let go of her hand.

“Yes,” he said. “It is very important work we are doing, Chantho. You must always remember that.”

“Chan, I will,” she replied, taken aback by his sudden earnestness. “I know well how vital this project is, tho.” She hardly needed reminding that they were the best hope of the entire civilization. She looked out over the balcony at the fruit of their labors. “Chan, almost finished,” she murmured. “Just a little more time, tho.”

“Time?” the professor repeated. “My goodness, it must be quite late! We’d best be getting back—oh, what time is it?” His hand strayed to the pocket in his waistcoat where the fobwatch resided.

A sudden urge to cry out came over Chantho as he reached for the watch, and it was only with difficulty that she contained herself. “Chan, please, you mustn’t, tho—” she said, not sure what she was asking. Yana, for his part, did not seem to notice her outburst, and let his hand drop. Chantho breathed a sigh of inexplicable relief.

“I’m sorry,” Yana said, “you’re right—I’m meant to relax this evening, you said.”

She shook her head. “Chan, it is all right, tho,” she answered. Something in the fobwatch wanted to become him, she knew, and could not have said how she knew it.

“Professor! There you are! Have you seen—oh! Chantho!” At the excited shouts, Chantho leapt to her feet in alarm to see a young human, disheveled from exertion, screech to a halt before them. “I’ve been looking all over.” His blue-splattered shirt bore a badge identifying him as a nurse.

“Chan, is that blood, tho?!” Chantho cried in alarm. She and Tengtho were the only Malmooth on the planet, surely it couldn’t be blood—humans didn’t have blue blood.

The man nodded, looking stricken. “Please, you must come with me. Our doctors don’t know enough about Malmooth anatomy—”

“Go, Chantho,” the professor said urgently. “I will be fine. Go.”

Chantho nodded, wordless, and rushed past the nurse, leading the way at a breakneck pace back to the medical unit. The nurse pointed at a curtain, and Chantho flung it back to find her mother lying on a bed, surrounded by helpless-looking humans.

“Chan, mother, I am here, tho!” Chantho said, seizing Tengtho’s hand. Tengtho gave a hacking cough, spraying them all with a fine blue mist. The aliens flinched.

“Teng, Chantho…good,” Tengtho murmured, and the sound of her labored voice made Chantho wince in sympathy. “I am sorry…that I did not tell you earlier…I have _fvendrelu_ tho.”

“What’s that mean?” one of the doctors asked, sounding panicked. Chantho could not tell which one spoke from behind their paper masks. “Chantho, how do we help her?”

Chantho shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “Chan, there is no help,” she said. “It translates as _knife-breath_. It is like what you call a cancer, a mutation, not a growth but a death. Mother, why did you not tell me, tho?”

“Are you saying it can’t be cured?” interjected another of the doctors. Another muttered a curse.

“Chan, it is not contagious, tho,” she told them dismissively, her attention on her mother. They were worried for their own safety, something she could not bring herself to care about while the only other survivor of her species, her own mother, lay dying before her.

“Teng, are you…happy, with your professor, Chantho, tho?” her mother asked, flecks of blue appearing on her lips with each word. One of the nurses reached over with a cloth to wipe her mouth clean.

“Chan, yes, yes, mother, tho,” Chantho reassured her.

“Teng…good…tho,” she breathed. Chantho bent close to hear her. “Teng…I was…worried…that you would…be…alone after I died, tho.”

“Chan, no, mother, tho,” Chantho said, distraught. “Chan, I was going to tell you anyway. We are to be joined, tho!” She surprised to hear herself say it, and had no idea why she had, save that in these last moments she needed her mother to be happy.

“Teng…I am…so happy…for you, Chantho…so…happy…” Her eyes drifted closed, and as she exhaled a thin stream of azure blood trickled from her mouth. She did not inhale again, and Chantho realized with a pang that the sentence would never be finished.

“Um,” said one of the nurses nervously. “Doctor? Should I charge the paddles?”

“Chan, no,” Chantho said forcefully, although she hadn’t been addressed. “There is nothing to be done tho. She will not breathe again. She is—” Unexpectedly, her voice broke, overtaken by a sob. She tried to regain control of her breath, but it was several moments until she managed to finish the sentence. “…gone, tho,” she gasped.

One of the doctors took her gently by the elbow and led her to a chair. She sat, still shaking with sobs. He offered her a clean, though stained, handkerchief, and she buried her face in it, covering her grief.

It was some time before she returned to her tiny quarters, dry-eyed, to find Professor Yana waiting for her. “Chantho,” he said, and then seemed to run out of words.

“Chan, I am the last of my people now, tho,” she told him. He moved toward her then and wrapped his arms around her, and she stood still and listened, her ear pressed to his heart, until his arms began to tremble from holding her so long and she pulled away from him.

“Chantho, if you need anything,” he began, “you know where I am. Remember you are not alone.”

She watched him leave. “Chan yes I am tho,” she told the empty room.

The strangers came soon after, two humans from an ancient world and another alien who apologized to her for the death of her race. He fixed the rocket too, and before long Professor Yana opened the fobwatch and was gone, her secret hopes violently dashed. As the thing that replaced him cursed her with death in his eyes, she smiled sadly. This was why he could not love her.

The alien who had caused this was the last of his kind, he had said. In a way, her beloved Yana had been right—even now in the moment of her death, as the murderous Master advanced on her, she was not alone.


End file.
